Bourrée: Hot Stepping
by Kal Lenin
Summary: (First book in a trilogy) War is like a dance, a quick tango between partners. The language of the feet and the alnguage of the body tell all. One foot drops and then another. Learn the steps quickly--a mistake can be fatal!
1. Prologue

(Verstand tanzt)

Dances of the Mind

Bourrée: Hot Stepping

Prologue

            "This way Mr. President!"

            As red lights blinked on and off and a blaring alarm wined, the secret service rushed the president off into a sturdy SUV, protected by a convoy of other SUVs and secret service agents.  Within minutes of the alert, the president was safely tucked away inside his vehicle and headed towards a rally point.  Perfect execution, putting into use several years of drilling, training, planning, and more drilling.  It went smoothly and without incident.

            Glancing back over his shoulder—and promptly thrust back down by an agent—the explosions could be heard getting softer.  A ringing noise brought the hands of the five agents in the vehicle to their coats, but they relaxed as the president answered his cell phone.  "Sir, are you okay?" a voice called over the line.

            "Bloody hell, Carl, what's going on out there?" President Morris asked.

            "Decepticon attack, sir," Carl Werner, Secretary of War, replied.  "We expected them to make some showing, but we weren't sure how interested they were in us.  Don't worry, sir, the military has already deployed forces to counter the threat, and I expect the Autobots will want a piece of them too.  The situation is under control."

            "You better damn well have it under control.  That's a civilian crowd out there.  Any innocent Americans hurt and you bet we're going to have a swarm of reporters to deal with.  And keep the property damage down?  The American economy will thank you."

            "I'll do my best sir."

            Sighing, the president tucked away his cell phone.  He glanced backwards and was once more suppressed by the bodyguard.  "You best stay down sir," the agent said tersely.  Nodding, the president tried to sneak a peek through the rear view mirror, but could only see the black SUV behind them, which carried a load of agents much more heavily armed than the personal bodyguards in his car.  Closing his eyes, he tried to get comfortable as the vehicle lurched from left then right and back again.

            Suddenly there was an explosion in the middle of the intersection ahead.  The car rocked as it whipped around in a J-turn, just missing the edge of the newly formed crater by a few feet.  As the car started to rocket off in the opposite direction, it was broadsided by some unknown object and began to wheel out of control.  The bodyguards tried to press the president down, away from outside view, but he was already thrown forward to the full extent of his seatbelt.  Then there was a huge crunching sound as the front windshield partially collapsed inwards.  The president was immediately whisked out of the vehicle by the bodyguards and into the acrid smoke of the outside.

            Outside the vehicle was total chaos and confusion.  People were screaming as they ran to clear the streets, which were filled with smoke, debris, and ash.  The sounds of gunfire and the occasional explosion were very near and very real.  Bright flashes of green and red exploded upon the cement of street and building alike.  As he was being covered and shoved by his bodyguards, he managed a glance back where the SUV was.  It had hit a lamppost head-on and the entire front end of the vehicle had crumpled.  In the front two seats, two dark figures slumped, unmoving.

            There were, then, three agents left with the president.  As he looked around, he could see the flaming shell of an overturned SUV, as well as a number of black-suited bodies strewn about the ground.  Had the entire convoy been taken out?  A bright flash of laser fire and the agent covering the rear was no more.  Without pausing, the remaining two agents shifted their positions to cover all sides.  There was a high pitched whine as a shadow passed overhead with lightning speed.

            As if a godsend, a black SUV screeched up to them, the door opening to reveal one agent driving and two riding as passengers.  The two bodyguards shoved the president in the vehicle and began to climb in.  A high pitched whine and a few bright flashes, and the last bodyguard was struck, sending the SUV peeling off into the chaos that was once a city-street.

            "Thank god," President Morris sighed.  "What's your name?" the president asked the driver.  "Whatever you're getting paid, it's not enough."

            "Mariner, sir.  Ben Mariner.  I'm just doing my duty."

            "America thanks you, and hell I love you.  I feel safe in your hands."

Behind the dark sunglasses, Mariner smiled.  "I'm glad you do sir."

The other agents in the car were giddy and nervous.  Two of them still had their guns drawn.  "I don't like this," one muttered.  Another glanced out the window, up and down the street.  "We're too exposed," he muttered.  Then the car stopped in the middle of the next intersection.

"What the hell is going on," the agent in the front passenger seat said, turning towards the driver.  "Why are you stopping?"  The agents looked around almost frantically, glancing at one another as if waiting for one to take charge.  "Why are we not moving?" the president asked.  "What the hell are you doing?"

Four bright flashes and an intensely loud sound caused the president to shield his eyes.  Though both blinded and deafened, the president could most certainly feel the heat around him.  When his vision returned, he looked forward to see Ben extending his arm towards him.  Then the president identified the source of heat—the smoking hulks of the agents' bodies, all four of them.  "What..." the president stammered as he turned back to Ben.

Only then he noticed that Ben wasn't just extending his arm towards him.  There was a slender metallic tube jutting unnaturally out of his arm like some sickening compound fracture.  It didn't take long before the president recognized the smoking object as a small laser weapon.  Ben smiled, "Like I said sir, I'm just doing my duty."  Then all went black.


	2. Chapter 1: “This is it”

(Verstand tanzt)

Dances of the Mind

Bourrée: Hot Stepping

Chapter 1:

"This is it"

            "Attention!"

            The entire room rose with a crisp salute as Colonel Gage himself came to conduct the briefing.  When he took his place behind a podium situated by the entrance of the hangar, the occupants took their seats once more.

            "Good morning," the colonel began, scanning the numerous eyes amongst the crowd.  "Today we have a special mission.  Enemy forces have been dormant until now."  He placed a transparency on an overhead projector, which he switched on.  "This is a satellite view of the nearest known enemy base, military designation 21C, as of two days ago."  A landing strip could be seen, as well as an array of structures.  There was perhaps one jet occupying the runway and a jeep or two.  He placed another transparency on the overhead.  "And here is the base yesterday."  This picture contained a significantly greater number of aircraft and vehicles, as well as additional tents and temporary structures nearby.  What was most noticeable, though, was the dark black lines that ran down the runway, indicating high traffic.  "Conway, on intel, will fill you in."

            "Thank you sir," Conway said, taking the podium.  He signaled to his assistant, who began to pass out manila folders.  "As you can see, what we're dealing with here is nothing out of the ordinary, as far as unit composition.  You'll encounter the usual fighters, tanks, and IFVs, and the usual assortment of drones.  Our sources indicate, however, that there is at least one platoon, and perhaps up to three stationed there.  In the worst possible case, we're dealing with some two thousand infantry, two tank battalions, three fighter or bomber squadrons, and up to one detachment of Decepticons.  It'll be pure textbook maneuvers and Decepticon ploy, so there shouldn't be any problems.

            "If you'll look at page eight of the report, you'll see the unit listing we have, as far as our sources have confirmed."  There were a few whispered words exchanged among the listeners, but the room was otherwise silent and attentive.  "I'll hand the podium back to the colonel now, so he can brief you on the mission."

            "Thank you Lieutenant Conway," the colonel said.  "What we're doing here is a pre-emptive strike.  We have authorization to use any amount of force necessary to neutralize the threat."  Many glances were exchanged as he spoke these words.  "I want every one of you out there and in the field.  We're leaving a small group to defend the base, but don't worry.  I have word that Captain McDonnel and the 105th airborne are a radio call away, and Captain Merk and the notorious Wolfpack armored group are within a few hours to the south.  I'd say we're in good hands."  The colonel took the liberty of smiling, which somewhat eased the tension in the room.  "Are there any questions?"  He glanced about the room.  A hand shot up.  "Yes?"

            "Sir, if what if this is some lure, to draw us out?" a young private asked.

            "As I said, we've calculated sufficient defenses for this mission, and have additional troops at our disposal.  I haven't been a colonel this long to throw it all away in one crap shot."  There were a few chuckles, as he was known to lose often at craps.  "Any further questions?"

A metallic hand raised in the air.

            "Yes?"

            The hand belonged to a heavily built transformer off to the side, who was crouching almost as if in attempt to make himself unnoticeable.  In front of him, like a huge steel beam, lay a rifle with an intimidatingly large bore.  His mechanical voice was deep and echoed in the expanse of the hangar.  "With the size of our assault, they will surely detect our presence before we arrive.  How much warning will the base have before we actually fall upon them?"

            "Conway, can you answer that?"

            "Uh, yes sir.  The base has a typical type 3B radar relay system, so they should pick up traces as far as 50 miles, and definite signals within 25 miles.  It is a mission priority to destroy the radar station to sever their link with the outside world.  The base is also rumored to have a direct uplink to Cybertron, so be aware for that.  It would be a mission priority to keep that uplink intact, as it is of much greater significance than a normal array.  If anyone has visual confirmation of such an uplink, we expect to be notified immediately.  An electronics team is on standby to capture the station.  You can identify the relay by the four distinct smaller dishes on the corners of the main dish.  The problem will be locating the main dish, though, as it can be easily hidden amongst an array of normal satellite dishes, so keep your eyes open before you let those missiles fly."

            The colonel glanced about the room.  "If there are no further questions, then report to your commanding officers; they'll have your specific assignments.  Dismissed."  A quick salute was given and the soldiers rose as the colonel left.

            "Not a little worried, are you Tripwire?" Private Sam Gradsen asked, tapping him on the shoulder.

            "What made you think that?" the autobot replied, picking up the beam rifle beside him.

            "Oh nothing," he said, waving it off and chuckling on his way out.

            Outside, there was much commotion as everyone prepared for the mission.

            "Longshot!" Tank commander Thomspon called out.

            "Hank!  I see we'll be working together again?" Longshot replied.

            "Nah, they decided to assign you to the air corps this time."  They both laughed.

            "Well, it would be interesting to see the likes of an M1A2 Abrams in the air wouldn't it?"

            "As long as it isn't one of my babies!"

            "Oh and I'm an acceptable risk?"

            "You autobots take care well enough on your own."

            "Are you taking me for granted?" Longshot replied, feigning offense.

            "What?" Hank replied, feigning shock.

            By that time they were both at the small tent where a few officers were distributing assignments.  The officer handed Hank a folio, which he opened.  He laughed out loud.  "Looks like you're with me Longshot!"

            "On lead?  Again?!  That's the third time in a row!" Longshot complained

            "Well, maybe they _are taking you for granted!"_

            The officer at the tent did not look at them.  "Next," he said, in a slightly irritated manner.  They took the hint and brought their conversation out into the field.  Marine captain Harris watched them depart, shaking his head.  "Not like it used to be, eh Jack?"

            Intelligence officer Jack Henley did look at Karl Harris.  "No, not quite," he said, with a hint of German still tainting his otherwise unnoticeable accent.  "How long has it been?  Six years?"

            Karl laughed.  "More like six months.  They're not too bad, though, once you get used to them.  In fact they're rather amiable."

            Jack wore a wry grin.  "I don't think I'll ever get used to them."

            "Have you even gotten used to cities yet?"

            Jack though for a moment, then smiled broadly.  "Good point.  I still wish I was back on the farm.  You know in the Rhineland, we had this saying..."

            "Enough enough!" Karl interrupted.  "I already promised you I'd go back with you on my next three-day.  Isn't that enough?"

            "Just reminding you of your roots."

            "Hey—I was born in Texas and raised in California.  As far as I'm concerned, I'm pure American blood."

            Karl's sigh was almost of despair.  Jack punched him in the shoulder.  "Hey, I'm just kidding with you, eh?  I just don't want to be laughed at because I call a sir a miss in German."

            Karl smiled and handed him his squad assignment.  Jack saluted him as he parted.  "See you around, Karl.  Have fun here, all nice and safe!"

            By this time, the line was rather long and people were getting antsy, so Karl hastened with the other assignments.

            At the supplies tent, bombardier Walter Lee checked out an additional flak jacket.  The officer stationed there eyed him suspiciously, but provided it nonetheless.  As he walked onto the airstrip, as voice called out, "You think you'll be needing that?"

            The voice originated from a large bomber that looked strikingly similar to a B-2, but not quite.  "Just makes me feel better, Horizon.  Besides, one of the others might have forgotten one."

            "Uh, yeah sure," the transformer dismissed.

            "Oh, you're not actually insulted are you?" Walter asked, as he climbed into the plane from the open hatch.

            There was no response for a moment, which made Walter lose his smile, but then the inside of the plane was filled with laughter.  He turned red slightly, as the pilot looked back from the cockpit and the navigator looked up from his maps.  He looked back at them both.  "What are you looking at?"

            "Okay, Tripwire, choose your company.  We've got Fox company deploying on the north and east sides and Bravo company in the mountain pass in the southwest."  Jack Henley looked up from his map.

            "Where's the thickest fighting?" he replied with what seemed to be a glitter in his eye.

            "Probably the mountain pass."

            "I'll go with Bravo then."

            "Sure."  Jack paused as he was about to leave and regarded the Autobot with a severe eye.  "You know, sometimes I worry about you."

            Tripwire laughed, and leaned in close.  "The only thing I'd worry about is finding a target cause by the time you get there, I'll have taken 'em all out!"

            Jack shook his head and made off to talk to his other officers.  Tripwire called out after him, "Make sure you bring extra ammo!"

            "Alright Longshot, let's do this right," Thompson said, taking his seat as driver and commander.

            "If you want to do it right, the first thing you should do is scoot over one seat," Longshot replied, his face appearing on the internal display.

            "But that's the observer's seat!"

            "Hey—most commanders just observe."

            Hank put up a sour face, "Other commanders can do what they like.  I like to drive.  Besides, it doesn't get in the way of my commanding."

            "I'm more worried about it getting the way of your driving.  Hey there Birdie."

            Arnold Lark entered the tank cockpit and took his seat at the gunners position.  "Longshot?  Couldn't recognize you from the outside!"

            "Well, the army rubs off on you over time.  Literally."  They all laughed.

            "Hey Lark, I'm not a bad driver, am I?" Hank asked directly.

            Lark thought a moment, "No, not really."

            "See?" Hank said with a touch of victory.

            "When you're just driving, that is.  Driving and commanding?  I don't know..."

            "Hey whose side are you on, kid?  Name me one time that I ever messed up."

            "Well," Longshot began, "there was the parking lot incident?"

            "I told you—it was in the way!  And what's the point of driving a tank if you're not going to utilize all of your abilities?  Besides, they were all enemy vehicles."

            "They were parked jeeps."

            "But I effectively decimated their means of escape!"  He lowered his voice a little.  "And besides, you know it was fun."

            "Fun to have to spend four hours in repair?  And a new paint job?  My underside was so scratched up...geez I could've sworn there was about an inch of steel left between those jeeps and my spark."

            "But you didn't mind receiving a medal for all the confirmed kills those jeeps totaled up?"

            For the first time, there was no response.  Hank laughed heartily.

            "Hey," Sam Gradsen called over casually.  The group of other infantry returned his greeting as he walked on by.  He headed straight for an Autobot who was already engaged in a loud conversation with another soldier.  "I tell you," he was saying, "the XMP-55 will beat out the XMP-57 for sure."

            "No way!" the other soldier protested.  "Did you see the last test?  XMP-55 cut out after 2000 rounds!"

            The Autobot pointed a finger at the soldier.  "But that was a proven fluke.  The barrel was an irregular discarded from the shop floor, and they used the same 55 that they used in the previous tests while the 57 was a fresh one."

            The other soldier began to protest when Sam coughed.  After a side glance, the soldier said, "Well, I'd better be prepping with my squad.  See ya later Speedway."

            "Same to you Arnold," Speedway returned.  He turned his head towards Sam, maintaining his lazy posture leaning on the side of a huge C-130 transport.  "So, what's up Sam?"

            Sam looked to the left and the right, and spoke in a low voice, "I just, ah, wanted to tell you—you know, before I forget—I, ah...remember that favor you owed me?"

            "Sure thing," Speedway replied casually.  He eyed him with slight suspicion, "What do you have in mind?"

            "Well," Sam began before coughing a few times.  "You see," he continued, "there's this girl..."

            "You're not asking me what I think you're asking me are you?" Speedway interrupted hoisting himself to an upright position.

            "Look, my car is in the shop.  I need a ride.  And this is a once in a lifetime opportunity!"

            Speedway turned his head away.  Sam protested, "Hey, you said anything!"

            Speedway looked the opposite direction, scratching some spot behind his head.  "Yeah..."

            "Look—just this once, okay?  And who knows, maybe you'll like her and..."

            Speedway bent down and leaned in close, pointing a huge finger at him, "Just this once.  And don't think you'll _ever get me to do something like this again."_

            Sam smiled jovially.  "Thanks!  You're really a pal."

            "And consider us even."

            "Even Steven."

            With that, Speedway walked off, muttering to himself.  Sam watched him leave until he turned the corner and was out of sight.  Then jumped and threw his fist in the air, and silently shouted _yes!_

            "Well Colonel, this is it, isn't it?"

            The colonel turned to see Zenith Prime standing still behind him.  He turned back to gazed over his men once before responding, "Yes, Prime, I suppose it is."

            Zenith Prime nodded once.  A thoughtful silence ensued as they both watched the troops, transformer and human alike, prepare for battle.  "I never imagined it would be like this," Zenith whispered almost inaudibly.

            The colonel turned to Zenith and gave him a questioning look.  Zenith replied, "It's like a dream, isn't it?  I mean, here we have the humans and transformers working together so closely…this is how it should be, do you know what I mean?"

            Colonel Henry Gage nodded slowly and turned his eyes back over the base.  "And yet, in thinking of this, miles across this planet, somewhere out there, there are humans and transformers in bondage, pitted against each other to the death."

            This time Zenith paused for long consideration.  "Yes, indeed," he said at last.  "Strange how things so different can coexist right next to each other, isn't it?"

            "Yes, for sure," Gage replied.  "But we hope to change that don't we," he said, adding a smile.

            "Yes, indeed.  We hope to change that."

            With that, the two of them withdrew to watch their men—and transformers—silently.

            "Report."

            "They are moving."

            "How many."

            "Most of them.  A few thousand."

            Pause.

            "Good."

            Pause.  A shuffling sound.

            "You are dismissed."

            A bow.  The diminishing echo of footsteps.

            In the darkness, Magnatron smiled.  Once again, his patient efforts have greatly paid off.


	3. Chapter 2: “Brawls of Steel”

(Verstand tanzt)

Dances of the Mind

Bourrée: Hot Stepping

Chapter 2: "Brawls of Steel" 

            "This is BARCAP patrol, Eagle One reporting in.  You got anything, two?"

            "Dammit, can't you just call me Tailhook?"

            "Stick to the plan, two."

            Conway Miles, also known as Eagle One, silently laughed from the cockpit of his Super Hornet.  The Autobots still only grudgingly adhered to the human idea of military efficiency.  And perhaps they had a good point, too, but the system was already in place, and what could you do about it?  He made a leftward glance at Tailhook, who was in loose formation with his flight.  At a glance, he looked like a modified F/A-18E/F Super Hornet, but you had to look closely to note the subtle differences.  For instance, the Cybertronian steel had a somewhat different sheen to it, and was only slightly dulled by the standard paint job.  The biggest giveaway, though, was that on the tail, where there should have been an American flag, there was the Autobot insignia.

            "Just a few more klicks, Tailhook, and you'll be home free," Conway said into the radio.

            "Good.  I hate to ruin this new paint job."

            _He's young, Conway thought to himself, smiling.  After a few more years, he'd be a vet like the others, and then he'd put on a new face.  For now, though, he was who he was.  Conway shook his head.  How many pilots—and transformers—have he guided from green to mean?  Though it was always the same, he still found it enjoyable.  It was refreshing to see in others that youthful flare that his own commander must have seen in himself when he was in training.  He glanced at his instruments and frowned._

            "Hold up," he said into the radio.  "Ah, command, we have two bogeys at fifty miles, heading two eight six point nine.  Please advise."

            The radio was silent for a moment, but then it crackled to life.  "Roger, we read you.  Proceed to maximum visual range.  Do not engage."

            "That's affirmative command, over."

            He switched his radio to the squadron channel.  "Hear that Tailhook?  Got some unidentifieds out there.  You know the drill."

            "Yes sir," the Autobot replied, increasing speed.

            For things like this, humans were not adverse to letting the transformer do the job.  It was not that the humans were inferior to them in any way, but merely that the transformers came equipped with all sorts of sophisticated gadgetry that the generals and the media loved to see in action.  Besides, at maximum zoom, their enhanced optical systems beat human vision by more than a few hundred to one.  "Switching to range while scan; passive monitoring systems fully functional.  You got anything on the EM scope, Tailhook?"

            "Nothing out of the norm, Conway.  Just your usual IR signature."

            Conway sighed and watched their range diminish.  Keeping an eye on his electronic map display, he radioed, "Break off this run, Tailhook.  Look s like our fight come another...."

            An explosion bucked the jet, causing Conway to veer wildly to the right.  "Shit!" Conway heard over the radio.  Glancing to his left, he saw a large scorch mark on the rear half of the fuselage.  "You okay there bud?"

            "Yeah, yeah don't worry about me.  Watch the six!"

            Conway turned around and frowned.  He checking his instruments.  "I don't see anything..."

            "I'm sure there's one back there!  Those other guys are too far away, and besides, it came from the wrong direction."

            "Looks like we got a cloaker.  BARCAP patrol to command and control, you might have one heading your way.  We have one bandit unaccounted for.  He's behind us and cloaked."

            "We copy.  New orders, patrol.  Engage at will."

"Roger that!" Tailhook replied enthusiastically.

"Hey Hook, you got any of those magic flares of yours?"

"You mean the EM-sensitive ones?"

"That would be them."

"Don't leave base without 'em."

"We'll do a turnabout.  We can get the other monkeys later.  After the turn, launch one flare at the ten o' clock low and one at two o' clock high, okay?  On my mark."

"Roger that."

"Break!"

Though Tailhook did indeed look like an Super Hornet, he performed nothing like one.  The first reason would be the obvious: he was a Transformer.  He was a natural, quite literally, at flying; it would be like running for humans, or maybe swimming.  All the technical numbers—air speed, heading, corner velocity, turning radius, altitude, and what not—he could feel them and respond to them instinctively and intuitively.  He can execute a maximum speed turn in the same way that a human body knows how to reposition itself to balance the proper forces when changing direction.  There was some amount of envy exuded from humans towards transformers in that respect, but Conway supposed that the transformers were equally fascinated at the assortment of positive and negative feedback loops that make up the human nervous system.

A split second after he came out of the turn, two bright pinpricks of light shot off into the distance.  Just as Conway spotted a shimmering patch of sky near a cloud, a beep on the radar told him that his radar warning receiver had picked up a target.  He immediately let loose with the M61 and watched with satisfaction as the 20-mm tracers found their way to their target.  After a only few dents and sparks, the decepticon uncloaked and dropped with incredible speed.

"Form up!" Conway radioed by instinct.

"This one's mine," Tailhook said, diving down past Conway.  In one fluid motion, he let loose a trio of AIM-9Xs and transformed.  In response, the decepticon transformed and spun around while continuing his downward trajectory.  A short burst of laser fire and the missiles were destroyed, allowing the decepticon to dive further.  Conway shook his head and switched to his AIM-120 AMRAAM.  "Drop below him Hooker.  I'm coming on the top.  Keep your fire to his underside so he can't land."

Slightly disheartened at his missed opportunity, Tailhook replied, "Sure thing.  You're the boss."  He immediately pitched into a downward spiral at an angle of attack of roughly eighty-five degrees.  It was amazing the kind of loads that transformers could take, but he supposed it was all in perspective.  They _were made of metal—something that a carbon-based life form like him would have to get used to._

Conway kicked in the afterburners and accelerated, trying to maintain a steady lock.  The decepticon, however, jinked with an uncanny clairvoyance, but again, it was just instinct.  By then they had dropped from fifteen thousand feet to roughly six thousand feet.  The rugged terrain was beginning to look mighty close.  A flurry of red coming from Tailhook and the decepticon immediately pulled up into an Immelman turn followed by a J-turn.  That brought him only slightly below Conway but coming straight at his twelve o' clock.  He was six nautical miles away, but in air-distance, that was close.  _Almost too close, Conway thought, smiling, __but not close enough.  He pulled the trigger and watched the AIM-120 Slammer plow forward with supersonic speed.  The decepticon executed a turn carrying a G-load no human could withstand, and was immediately perpendicular to his original flight path.  A few glistening flickers indicated that he had dispensed chaff; the missile exploded harmlessly short of its target._

"Let me handle this, buddy-boy," Tailhook said, shooting past Conway.  "Never send a human to do a transformer's job."  Conway smiled and shook his head.  _This is going to get ugly, he thought to himself._

Conway had seen some pretty rough-and-tough "brawls of steel" in his time, but this one was one for the records.  Tailhook accelerated recklessly forward, probably putting forth a heat signature that a thermometer could pick up from across the Atlantic.  Conway could only stare at his HUD and watch the small blips dance about each other.  They were both transformed and hovering about each other, trading shots and, if Conway knew Tailhook correctly, insults.  When Conway came into visual range on a slow approach, he made certain to pass from above.  Then suddenly the two steel forms collided together and dropped from the sky in a mass of flailing steel.  "Tailhook!  You all right?"

"I'm a little (grunt) busy (a metallic screeching sound) right now!!!"

Conway dived down after them, but could only do so slowly, or he would suffer red-out.  On his new instrument panel, Conway tapped a few keys experimentally and was rewarded with a display showing the fight from Tailhook's point of view.  He drew back slightly as a fist grew very large and suddenly the clouds shot into view.  In the lower right hand corner, a four digit number was counting down very rapidly–altitude.  "Uh Tailhook...down below?"

"I (grunt) know *mpphhh* what I'm doing.   Gahhh!!!"

Shortly, there was a massive cloud of dust on the ground.  Conway had made it to a thousand-feet by then and tried his best to spot Tailhook.  His radar was receiving too much interference from the ground and the dust too be of much use.  "Tailhook!  Tailhook are you there!"

No response.

"Tailhook!"

Silence.

Then suddenly, his plane shuddered and began to descend awkwardly.  The surprise would have made Conway hit his head on the cockpit, had it been possible.  Looking at the rear-view display, Conway saw a steel form peeking into the back of his cockpit while grabbing a steady hold of the fuselage.  Tailhook waved a hand at him and smiled.

"Geezes shit, Tailhook, what're you trying to do, tear the plane apart?!"

"Don't worry, silly hooman.  This plane can take a lot more than you think. Trust me."  He patted the glass cockpit, causing Conway to tense in anxiety.  Tailhook laughed.

"Oh did you want to fly?" Conway asked sarcastically.

"Well, now, that's not a bad idea..."

"Tailhook!"

The transformer laughed again.  "Oh before I part with you and the two of us cease to be one, let me just tell you one thing.  We Cybertrons play by our own rules.  Remember that.  Learn the rules and maybe you'll live in this game of war."

Conway knew there was truth in that, but he couldn't let him get the last word.  "Honkey-tonk coming from a rookie like you!  Wait 'till you go up against a squad of Mirage F2000s, or whatever the hell they've got out there.  We humans have our rules too."

"Well said, my friend," Tailhook responded.  He glanced over his shoulder.  "Looks like the other two live to fight another day."

"Have you been reading, Tailhook?"

Tailhook "blinked" blankly.  "No, just watching TV.  Why?"

"Never mind."


	4. Chapter 3: In Preparation

(Verstand tanzt)

Dances of the Mind

Bourrée: Hot Stepping

Chapter 3:

In Preparation

_Begin Message_

_***For Your Eyes Only***_

_Date: __July 12, 2076___

_Source: Classified_

_Text:    From the data, I gather we're dealing with something very important.  Whoever is managing it has managed to cover their tracks, even going way back into the archives.  It appears to be much older than we previously thought, though, and may have even been started during the original conflict.  Perhaps earlier.  Who knows.   Whatever it is, it seems to me that its leaders are confident that it will undermine the defenses of Earth and, ultimately, the human race.  I can't say for certain how valid these claims are.  I need more time._

_End Message_

            "Tripwire!" Sam Gradsen called, waving his arms.  "They're looking for you back at CP."

            "Oh?" Tripwire asked.  "Direct orders I suppose?"

            Sam nodded.  "You bet."

            Sighing, Tripwire slung his beam rifle over his shoulder.  "You know sometimes I get to thinking that all this military stuff is too, well...Decpticon."

            "Oh, don't sweat it.  It's like getting drafted, you know.  Teachers, factory workers, clerks—they all become soldiers when the draft comes.  And you know what?  I think its nice to know that normal everyday people can answer the call to defend the nation—or the world."

            "Well, when ya put it that way, it makes it pretty hard to complain, doesn't it?" Tripwire laughed and followed Sam back to the command post.

            When they arrived, a British SAS officer was poring over a map with a few US Army officers.  "We've spotted a few emplacements over here and here," the SAS officer said, pointing to a region of the map.  "They're defending this bridge right here, which is one of the three river crossings.  All the crossings are defended, but we need to take and hold one, or we might leave our supply line vulnerable.  On our side of the bank, you can see the road that comes up here—that's the road that connects the 105th with the rest of the 3rd expeditionary.  Incidentally, all other passages through the area have been secured by hostile forces, including collaborating governments."

            The British officer looked up at Tripwire.  "Ah, there you are, mate.  I was hoping to see you."  Tripwire nodded in acknowledgement.  "Take what you've got of your company and capture the bridge.  Air support is on the wait for green flares, so when you've taken out the AA, give a smoke."

            "Roger that.  Sam, you in?"

            "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

            Tripwire walked away from the group of large tents that made up the main annex of the small CP.  With Sam trailing behind, he walked over to where some men were badgering the supply officer.

            "Oh come on, gimme a chocolate bar!"

            "Go get an officer's signature, and maybe I'll give you one.  I've got direct orders to keep the materiel safe."

            "Materiel?  Chocolate?  Fuckshit Morgan, I'm dying here!"

            "Don't you have better things to do with your time Kern?"

            "As a matter of fact he does," Tripwire interjected.  Sergeant Frank Kern snapped to attention.  "Do I see one of my very own non-coms trying to exhort supplies from good old Uncle Sam, the great righteous and everpresent United States of America?"  He stepped up close to Kern to emphasize his towering twenty-four foot figure.  Keeping the tension just a long enough for him to sweat, Tripwire finally smiled.  "At ease you fruit.  Go eat an apple or something."

            "Yes, sir!" Kern said, saluting.

            "Oh, and while you're at it, gather up the company—we're heading out."

            "Thanks, sir."

            Tripwire turned back to the supply officer.  "Oh, don't mention it.  And hey—can you do me a favor?"

            "Anything, sir."

            "Put one of those chocolate bars on Kern's bunk, but with one of those little frilly pink bows on it, will you?  You know, the ones the GIs love to give the USO show girls?  Thanks."

            Tripwire left the puzzled supply officer, wearing a smug sense of satisfaction.  "I could get used to this," he muttered.

            "Okay, troops, here's the situation."  Tripwire projected a map in the air.  "This river here borders the southwestern portion of the projected zone of engagement.  Command wants us to secure at least one of these three bridges so our line of communications with the 105th doesn't get cut.  I've already looked at the intel and recon, and have decided that we're going for the middle bridge.  If resources and opportunity permit, we'll give a go for one of the other bridges.

            "The middle bridge is codenamed Nevada passage.  The one to the southwest is Utah passage and the one to the northeast is Oregon passage.  We're expecting about a company at each bridge, with another company in reserve for all three bridges.  On the other side of the bridges, the terrain is all rough-and-tough cityscape.  Most of the buildings have been long abandoned by civilians, so we shouldn't have any problems with ROE.  In fact, any houses would most likely contain hostiles, if any people at all.  This particular township has one large road that starts at the bridge and leads to a central square.  It's a spoke-and-wheel type of layout, so all streets meet at the center.

            "The biggest threat to us are the two LL32s that watch over the bridge.  They're dug into firing pits, one on each side.  Also, at the center of town is a small mobile SAM group.  If we can take those out, then the blue boys up above can join the party in their F-22s and F-18s.  Also, the airborne can drop in another company to help us get comfortable until division can scrounge up enough men for a real thrust.  Mission priority is to eliminate the SAM group and to keep the bridge intact.  I'm counting on Dreyfus and Shin and the demo team to take care of any charges they might have placed on the bridge.  We'll keep things simple and split up by platoon.  Watch for mortars and snipers—they've got plenty out there.  Remember, intel loves prisoners, and what intel loves, you love.  Let's move out troopers!  Drop everything but weapons and ammo!"

            The map, which had animated the briefing with visual display, disappeared as Tripwire turned to face two approaching autobots.  One of them was a dark green-brown color of army camouflage.  Attached to his side was a small sidearm, but he was otherwise unarmed.  A small patch painted on his chest displayed his affiliation with the armored cavalry divison.  The other autobot was notably larger.  On his shoulder was a stout barrel with a gaping hole which would have been dismissed by anyone noticing had there not been the small stub of a warhead shyly peeking out of it.  His tan camouflage paint was chipped here and there, and there was a dent or two on his front armor.  His wheels, though vestigially perched on his back, still tracked an unusually dense clot of mud.  In one arm, he held some monstrous gun that looked like it could down a bomber from cruising altitude.  "Well, well, what do we have here?" Tripwire said, crossing his arms.

            The first autobot chuckled.  "Now that's a warm greeting."

            Tripwire held his ground for a second longer before embracing his comrade.  "Fairway!  I haven't seen you since…geezes Christ…that last spat at, ah, Charleston, was it?  Fucking slag, how long ago was that?  Two months?"

Fairway spread his arms.  "Where does the time go?"

            "Thank the Matrix you're in one piece.  Last time I saw you, you were barely in one piece!"

            "Well, us recon and comm people get around."  He slammed his chest.  "This bot may get mangled, but he always pulls through!"

            "Ha!"

            "Hey it got me a purple heart."

            "You're slagging me!"  
            "No shit-from-the-pit.  Take a look."  Fairway produced the medal from a compartment.

            "Haha.  'Wounded by an instrument of war in the hands of the enemy' eh?"

            A cough.

            Tripwire turned his attention to the other autobot who seemed to be rather impatient.  "Something jittering your superstructure?"

            "Sorry, sir, but we're on business.  Are you in command of 3rd army, XII corps, 151st infantry, Dog company?"

            "Yes I am."

            "Field report sir—we have it from cavalry that there is another detachment heading towards the bridge.  If you hurry, you should have enough time to assault and set up a base of operations before they arrive.  From what I hear, the troops are just passing through, so they won't be on high alert.  There will be plenty of them, though, so keep an eye on the field and on the watch.  Eighteen hundred hours is the estimate, give or take a five or ten.  Hope you find the info helpful."

            Tripwire grimaced.  "Sure, send my thanks to those waging the 'war away from the field,'" he said with a touch of sarcasm.  "Shit, as long as we're not caught blind.  Not like March…" he trailed off, staring into empty space for a bit.  Shaking his head, he asked, "What's your name?"

            "Highpot, sir."

            "Well met.  And drop the sir—we're comrades."  Tripwire grinned.

            Highpot nervously returned the grin.  Swinging his gun around to ready position, he started, "Well, we'd better be off.  We're expected back..."

            "See you later Tripwire," Fairway said.

            "Same to you, Fairway.  Keep in one piece."

            As they parted, Tripwire heard a few snatches of conversation.

"Shit what's with him?" Highpot whispered.

"Don't mind you," Fairway whispered, "but he was at Chicago during 'Blind Fire.'"

"Oh."

            Jack Henley pored over the reports on his desk and frowned.  Rubbing his forehead in frustration, he sifted through them and hoped there was something that he had missed.  His second examination confirmed it: the reports officially said nothing.

            "Got something there?"  
            Henley looked up calmly, his heart racing.  "Sir," Jack stammered, shooting to his feet.  "I didn't notice you walk in."

            Ian Pershing, Director of the CIA, waved him off.  "Don't worry about it.  I'm technically a civilian anyway."  He smiled, "Frustrated?"  
            Henley collapsed back into his chair.  "Nothing.  Absolutely nothing."

            "What have they got you doing?  Predicting troop movements?  Satellite photos?  Enemy installations?"

            "Hit the nail on the head."

            Ian snorted and looked away.  "Absolute garbage."  Then he suddenly whirled in his chair and slapped both of his hands on the desk.  Leaning in as he spoke, he lowered his voice slightly, "You want a real job?"  
            Jack raised an eyebrow.  "What have you got in mind."

            "Only the most important project to the survival of the human race."

            Tossing his pen onto the desk and scooting in his chair, Jack challenged, "Shoot."

            Ian got up and went to the door, glancing quickly down the hallway.  Closing the door and locking it, he returned to his seat and pulled a large steel object out of his jacket.  After hefting it a few times, he flipped a switch on its side and placed it on the desk with a small thunk.  Henley recognized it as a small jammer, used typically to prevent bugs or recording devices from discerning the dialogue of a conversation.  Whatever the CIA director had in mind must have been very important, or he would not use a jamming device.  This office was deep within allied territory, and the chance that any sort of enemy surveillance was anywhere nearby was minimal.

            "Do you remember last March?"

            Jack bit his lip and tried to recollect.  "Do you mean Chicago?"  
            "Yeah, 'Blind Fire' they called it."

            Jack started, "You're not going to…"  He was cut off by Ian's hand.

            "Don't say a thing until I've finished," Ian said authoritatively.  Jack nodded and acquiesced.  "Anyway, as you may know, 'Blind Fire' was the codename they gave to the Decpticon ambush on the president's convoy last March.  Total annihilation.  The convoy was taken out, as well as a good chunk of the Army and the Illinois National Guard.  Funny they never found the body of the president, but that's another issue.  Anyway, some research turned up a few interesting tidbits.

            "Before I get to that, let me let you in some stuff you may or may not be aware of.  Since the beginning of the autobot-decpticon struggle here on Earth, there has been a small division created within the CIA to handle matters with the transformers and Cybertron.  The division was kept secret because of the obvious security reasons, and because the methods required to obtain intelligence on Cybertron are…unorthodox.  Anyway, it's practically an independent organization now.  It taps into just about every government organization for resources, and the government, if accosted, will deny its existence.

            "A few years after creation of the organization, known only as Echo-Tango, we started receiving reports of the most disturbing nature.  Having suffered a number of serious losses and setbacks, and in lieu of Megatron/Galvatron's defeat, the remaining decepticon leadership decided that other means were necessary to obtain victory.  The decepticons started a project to infiltrate earth's defenses and launch a massive assault from within."

            Ian Pershing paused to let his words soak in.  He smiled, folding his hands in front of him.  "How would you like to work on the biggest intelligence and counter-intelligence scheme ever since the heights of the cold war?"

            Jack scratched his chin in thought.  "I don't know…it doesn't seem much different from the usual stuff.  Decepticons have been infiltrating for a while, I mean they're goddam _transformers_.  Hell that coffee pot over there could be one right now."

            "Yes but what kind of responsibility do you place upon a coffee pot?"

            Jack frowned.  "I don't see where you're going…"

            Ian glanced around nervously.  This time his voice dropped uncomfortably low.  "Let me give you a little help.  Our contacts reported a large number of resources going into research of biological and chemical nature, namely genetics and gene manipulation."

            Jack thought about it more, "Biological and chemical weapons?  That's not really infiltration…"

            Ian shook his head.  "Certainly its something they've looked into, but that's not what I'm talking about.  Gene manipulation, Jack, genetics?"

            "Sorry, Ian, I can only think of some specially catered virus or something…"

            "Jack, get your head out of the sci-fi books.  What do _we_ do with out knowledge of genetics?"  
            "Ummm, clone sheep?" Jack asked as a joke.  Ian was not laughing.  Then it hit him.

            "Goddamit, Jack, they're cloning humans."


	5. Chapter 4: “The Face of the Enemy”

(Verstand tanzt)

Dances of the Mind

Bourrée: Hot Stepping

Chapter 4:

"The Face of the Enemy"

4:00:21 06.16.76, NetID 3012.1345.199.1 Port 1110, UserID 4453298 login Logging in to network… 

_Negotiating with host…_

_Establishing DCP-3X Protocols…_

_Connected._

_Receiving message from AG34E-21…_

_Begin Message_

_*Text only*_

_Preparations complete.  Initiating Phase II action.  Project {[encrypt] *charstring* [end_encrypt] //&code=L337&key=private&&%20%  /Symbol="code-text1"} is underway.  Results favorable.  Further reports "as need to know."_

_End Message_

_open "logfile.001"_

_*Access Denied*_

_setpasscode= "Alpha-alpha-tango" + "%root%\user\passcode.ini"_

_open "logfile.001"_

_*Access Granted*_

delete_entry "4:00:21 06.16.76, NetID 3012.1345.199.1 Port 1110, UserID 4453298 login"  –admin_norecord=0  –reset_clock  –clear_slot 1 

_*Entry Deleted*_

_logout +run_ini "hidetrace.ini" –mask_entry=1_

_*Logging out*_

_*Modifying logfile*_

_…_

_4:04:00__ 06.16.76, __NetID__3012.1345.199.1__Port__ 1110, Idle Time: 15 minutes.___

            "Heh, you know, I could get used to this planet," a gruff voice called.

            "Don't know about you, but I could get used to _stealing from this planet," a second voice responded._

            A chorus of chuckles.

            "Those autobots still out there?  Dammit I say we slag 'em now while the slaggin's good."

            "Shut yer trap, Cutaway."

            "Why don't you shut yours, Switchback?"

            "Quiet you two!" a third voice interjected.  "We hold our positions until further orders."

            A blue streak in the sky, then a small cloud.

            Cutaway shielded his eyes.  "Looks like 'the signal' to me."

            The third voice called softly.  "Time to move out.  Keep quiet you two.  Fire on my signal."

            "Shhheeerrrr thing Jackknife.  You're the boss-bot."

            A shuffling in the greenery—they shift positions.  Silence.

            "Boy I sure could use some down time," the left autobot called out.

            "You're telling me.  Of all the chumps in the company, we get slumped with patrol," the second replied.

            The first one stretched.  "Once I'm off duty it's gonna be a gallon of Penzoil, straight and virgin, the way I like my sweeties."

            The second one chuckled.  "I hear you, soldier.  Straight to 'The Hangar,' eh?  Lookin' for some wartime encouragement?"

            "Hey every soldier needs his morale…"

            A nod.  His hand dropped.

            Flashes of red.  The brief chatter of a .50-cal.

            Silence.

            "Recon?" Tripwire whispered.

            A soldier hiding in the tall-grass of a hill continued to peer through his field glasses for a moment longer, then crawled back down to the company's main position.  "The bridge is pretty broad down there, so it might be hiding something underneath, but from what I see, it looks like they've got a light patrol by the LL32s.  I saw lots of smoke from the chimney's of the nearest buildings, and then some more further in town.  Looks to me like they've holed themselves up pretty well."

            "Then we'll just have to make sure that they don't get too comfortable."  Tripwire turned as he heard the shuffling sound of boots on grass.  Another soldier appeared to his left.  He questioned him immediately, "Did you find the shallow portion that intel told us about?" 

            "Yes, sir," the soldier nodded.  "About a good three-quarter miles upstream.  The water's maybe a good twenty feet deep—not too bad if you ask me.  The engineers are beginning to secure ropes for raft-crossing."

Tripwire nodded in approval.  "Tell them to be ready to cross at fourteen-hundred.  The covering fire begins five minutes before.  Keep in touch on the shortwave only, got it?  It wouldn't help for us to broadcast our position to the world.  Remember: red flares for abort, green flares for go."

"Yes, sir," the soldier said, saluting crisply before jogging off at a low crouch.

Tripwire turned to face his detachment.  "Ok, folks, here's the scoop.  At five before fourteen-hundred, which is in ten minutes, we open up fire.  I want the MGuns and LGuns to take up positions on the hill.  Make sure you put one over in that grove at the base of the hill on the other side—nice view of the LL32s.  Mortars and rockets at the LLs, got it?  When you see the green flares, we bring down the heavy covering fire and push it up front.  Mguns move it up the bridge, and the rest of us push it hard across.  Demo team crosses when the guns are captured.  We'll need a little TNT for the guns, but focus on defusing any charges on the bridge.  Got it?  Hold your positions for now.  When I give the signal, no firing until I give the signal."

            A jeep and a humvee drove up quietly on the dirt road.  "And the mobile group?" a voice called from the jeep.

            "Ah ha ha ha," Tripwire replied.  "You can take care of yourselves, can't you?" he joked.  "Take a few friends, storm it.  You know, the usual."

            "Sure thing fearless leader," the jeep called.

            "You gonna stay back and watch us get slagged?" the humvee asked.

            "No, but I certainly could if I wanted to.  Anyway, I'll be up there with you guys, Flatout."

            "And are you going to stay in robot mode?" the jeep asked.

            Tripwire smiled, "That's my prerogative Cinder.  Besides, it's a bit easier to give orders that way."

            Cinder sighed.  "You need to get back on Cybertron for at least a megacycle.  Get in touch with your roots."

            Tripwire laughed.  "Don't worry, this bot is one hundred percent made on Cybertron."

            "Hmmm hmm hmmm," Cinder replied.

            Tripwire rapped on his hood.  "Get in position."

            "Sure, don't you worry about me...," Cinder replied mockingly as he drove off with Flatout.

            Tripwire turned back to the soldiers, "All right, then.  Let's get ready for the show."

            "The offensive is going as planned," General Thormund Oslow reported.

            "Excellent.  Excellent," a sinister voice called through the darkness.  A metallic hand appeared for a brief moment, gesturing.  "Dismissed."

            Oslow bowed once, turned crisply, and walked out of the pitch black room.  He shivered as soon as the doors closed and he was out of visual range of the guards.  Something had to be done about some of Magnatron's habits.  His tastes and eccentricities made it particularly difficult and disquieting to deal with him.  Still, he was quite a military asset, so he supposed they would have to tolerate him for the time being.

            And by they he was referring to the Earth Planetary Coalition, a coalition hashed from Warsaw Pact nations and just about every other crooked and/or anti-Western regime on the face of the planet.  It still lacked a single, united cause, but for the time being, its constituents were satisfied with the goal of defeating and overturning NATO and the U.N.  He supposed that if they emerged the victor, the member-nations would all turn against each other in one bloody battle for global domination.  But that was much further along the line.  For now, there were more immediate problems.

            The first was the United States.  It still held on to its industrial strength, but many these days "prophesized" its demise and downfall, as everything that rose must eventually come down.  Even Rome, in all its glory, succumbed to this entropic law, beat down by barbaric savages from the north and east.  However, as long as the United Sates maintains its current relations with the autobots, there would be danger of increasing power.  When the autobots first arrived on Earth battling the decepticons, most nations held on to the alliance as a matter of survival.  However, human technology having progressed rapidly due to "foreign" exposure, the situation was becoming more equivocal.  Some nations began to re-analyze the tactical situation, and decided that their national interests lay elsewhere.  They allied with the decepticons.

            At the time, it posed quite a question.  Why ally with the decepticons, who were so bent on global dominance and human destruction?  Perhaps the more intriguing question would be why the decepticons decided to honor such an alliance (at least for the time being).  And so, questions afloat, the dance began, in quick duple time.  One, two.  One, two.  A step here, a step there.  Who would step on who's feet?  Who would trip and fall first?  A bourrée to remember; a night of hot stepping.  When the night is young and the time is right, even foxes dance under the moonlight.

            Straightening out his attire, the general proceeded down the corridors of the subterranean base to the central control room.  From there, he could coordinate an entire war against any nation, should he desire to.  As of this moment, though, his attention was focused to the small chunk of the World Map on the eastern portion of North America.  Looking at the enemy positions west of their Virginia beachhead, he contemplated alternative attack solutions.  He had done this many times before, and things still looked the same.  They must push and push until they reached their objective.

            The thrust was twofold.  Ultimately, the capitol was their goal, but they intended on crushing Westpoint while they were at it.  That would be a blow to the United States which would be felt more in the long term.  Doing so would strike a concentration of the country's military intelligentsia, crippling its source of well-trained officers.  At some point later, they would stage a similar thrust at the Air Force Academy in Colorado, if the opportunity permitted.  They would proceed then to continue striking pseudo-military targets, maximizing civilian "splash" damage.  The was for Earth would not be fought in the battlefield, but on the pulpit, in the office, and on paper.  International media would be the weapon, double-edged and whimsical.  For the Earth Planetary Coalition, it would just be a matter of prolonging the war until the civilian population of the United States cries out.  Freedom of speech in the United States was its curse and its blessing.  Although it allowed for much progress, it also hindered the much needed efficiency and speed in government action during wartime.

            To fool the enemy, Magnatron had devised a transponder that carried his a copy of his unique signature.  From that, the Allied troops would think that Magnatron himself was leading the invasion when he was, in fact, laying low and waiting for the right moment.  Much of his time was spent locked away in that dark room, communicating with Cybertron—superiors or subordinates, Thormund knew not which, nor did he care—he had his own superiors to report to.

            He walked to a security door, slid a card, and punched in a sequence of numbers.  The door slid silently open, admitting him.  The room he entered was sparse, on civilian standards, but rather luxurious from a military perspective.  The simple rectangular room was obviously an office, but could easily have been at any corporate headquarters rather than some dank military base.  At the opposite end of the room was a steel desk painted a matte black that smelled of pure functionalism.  A tall potted plant sat in the far corner, and some pictures on the steel walls.  There were no windows, as the base was underground, but on the wall on one side was a flat, window-like video screen that displayed a fairly realistic outdoor scene.

            At the desk sat a short man, half-balding and in a faded green uniform of some antiquity.  His mustache was no longer dark brown, but a light brown mixed with silver.  On his breast were eight rows of ribbons and numerous medals and pins.  He sat straight-backed, a feat for a man of his stature, and was tapping at a laptop with incredible efficiency when the general walked in.  The man did not so much as flinch, and continued to tap away, forcing Thromund Oslow to wait until the man decided to notice him.  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the man leaned back in his seat and regarded the laptop screen with satisfaction.  Turning it off and pushed it aside, he then looked up and for the first time, made eye contact with Thormund.

            "Ah, Mr. Oslow, I see you have visited me in this most opportune moment," the man said.

            "I hope I am not disturbing you, Secretary-General," Thormund said obsequiously.

            "No, no, no," Secretary-General Heinrich Goldstein waved him off.  "As a matter of fact your visit is rather well timed.  I was just sending a message to our friends in Asia," he said, motioning to his laptop.  "It seems that they have something in mind themselves."  He grinned impishly.  "With all luck, the west coast of the United States will fall without and within.  I have word that at least twenty-five thousand in San Francisco and Los Angeles together are allied to their mother country.  Once they are supplied by our munitions, they will strike from within the United States like a poison."

            Thormund smiled too, "So the time has come then?"

            "Yes.  We have come a long way, have we not?" the secretary asked, not looking for any real answer.  "Come.  Sit.  Have a drink to celebrate."  He moved over to a steel cabinet, unlocked it, and removed a decanter and two glasses.  Smiling, he placed these on the desk as Thormund took a seat.  "I don't like the lower ranked officers to see alcohol in my office.  It helps to maintain discipline if they see me as severe and strict."  As he said this, he poured some brandy into both glasses.  He raised his glass in a toast, "To the downfall of the United States."

            "Here, here," Thormund said, raising his glass.  The secretary knocked back his glass as Thormund took a sip.  Making a face, the secretary exhaled sharply and leaned back in his chair.

            "Now then, what is the purpose of your visit?" Secretary-General Goldstein asked.

            "Magnatron has sent orders to move out more troops.  Do you trust him?" the general asked directly.

            Heinrich remained calm.  "He will do what he will.  So what is it if we humor him now?  He has proved to be useful indeed, so why stop him?  Out troops our loyal to us, and take our orders, so we have nothing to fear.  We just need to make sure that he takes more losses than we do."

            "And how would we do that, sir?"

            This time Heinrich sat up straight and leaned in a little.  He spoke quietly with the slightest hint of a grin on his face.  "We play down our power, play down our technology.  That is all.  He will be forced to use his own men to accomplish his goals.  Did you make sure that our armies were refitted with the old relics from World War II?"  When the general nodded, he continued, "If the enemy must see you and know you, let him see the ugliest and oldest, most inferior portion of you.  Show not your true strength to the face of the enemy, for it is better the enemy underestimate you rather than overestimate you.  Now," this time the Hienrich spoke at a bare whisper, "does he know yet that we have developed energon-harvesting technologies?"

            Thormund spoke softly in response, "No, sir.  That information we have been sure to keep most secure.  There are no documents or records kept of the existence of the program, and all the scientists are quarantined.  Absolutely no outside contact is allowed with the Siberian base save our own hand-picked soldiers."

            "Then we have the advantage…for now.  If there is one fatal flaw in Magnatron it is his ignorance of the full capabilities of human beings.  He sees us as inferior to him, but let him.  It will lead to his downfall." 


	6. Chapter 5: Explosion

(Verstand tanzt)

Dances of the Mind

Bourrée: Hot Stepping

Chapter 5:

Explosion

"The deepest fires burn within the hearts of men;

Alas, the savior sole is the heart itself."

            "Echo patrol?  You read me?  Dammit, they should've checked in a full five ago."

            "Don't sweat it, Jackson.  I'll bet they're just making back from a trip AWOL."

            Jet Jackson put down the radio transceiver.  "I don't know…when was the last time _you_ couldn't contact a pair of autobots?"  
            Scratch leaned back in his chair.  "Well, know, that poses an interesting question.  The last time I tried to contact _any_ autobots…hmmmm…wow thatmust've been that time I needed a ride to the airbase.  Strange I got no response…"

            Jet sighed and sat back down in the shade of the tent.  He rubbed his chin in thought, then suddenly banged the table.  The radio quivered.  "I know what I'll do."  He picked up the mic and keyed the talk switch.  "CP?  Give me C&C, 140th mechanized."  Scratch cocked his head curiously towards Jet.  The corner of Jet's lip twitched.

            "Yeah, 140th?  Hey, put up Hart.  Yeah, tell him It's Jet.  Hey Hart?  Yeah, yeah I'm fine.  I need a favor."  Jet smiled mischievously at his Maximal friend.  "Yeah, there someone I need to find.  Mmmm, actually I was thinking of something else.  You got access to the sats [satellites] right?  Can you get me a pos on those two?  Yeah.  Flipside and Dart.  Yeah ok."

            Tapping his fingers on the table, Jet seemed self-content.  Scratch's feline eyes seemed alit with a glow of their own, in addition to the one that was already present, that is.  Jet suddenly asked, "Scratch, you speak any other languages?"

            His tail twitched.  "Like what?"

            "I don't know.  German?  Russian?  French?"

            He shrugged.  "It's all the same.  Just a matter of programming I suppose."

            "You mean you could just download something for that?"

            "Well, I guess I could, but there might be a number of quirks.  Like maybe I think I'm speaking English, but really I'm speaking Russian.  Maybe I'm just being paranoid.  I don't know—I've always been a fan of the "old-fashioned" way of learning things, but when bit comes to byte, I suppose it's all the same."

            The radio crackled to life.  Jet grabbed the receiver.  "What?  Can't find them?  Okay, well, thanks anyway."  Jet frowned and scratched his ear.  "Wow.  You think something might have happened to them?  Scratch?"  He looked around.  The Maximal was gone.  His own breathing sounded harsh.  Everything was utterly still...

            "Looking for someone?" a harsh voice called.

            Jet looked up to see a Decepticon pointing a laser rifle at him.

            Stunned, he reached for the radio.   "Ah ah ah," the Decepticon said, waving his weapon.  "Now, you human, I suppose I'd better make use of you before I dispose of you.  Please me and I shall grant you a quick and _painless death.  What is your position and rank?"_

            Jet saw a shadow moving out of the corner of his eye.  He stammered a few words of jibberish, then stopped to inhale deeply.  "Time is not on your side, my fleshy friend," the decepticon said, beckoning with his gun.  "Your answer?  Or shall you please me in another way?"  
            "Oh," Jet stammered.  "I think...you may...be wrong...on that count."

            "Oh?" the decepticon replied mockingly.

            "Yes, I believe so," a voice answered from behind.  There was a huge flash and a brilliant cascade of sparks that caused Jet to fall over backwards.  When he righted himself, he coughed through a thick cloud of smoke that had just formed.  Through it, though, he could see the glowing eyes of Scratch.

            "Jeezes christ what did you do?"

            "Hmmm?" Scratch replied, displaying two objects he held in his hands.  They were the leads of a power transmission line.  Low current AC to minimize power loss in transmission, but that meant high voltage.  Real high voltage.  Jet sighed, "You know some commander is going to be wondering why his coffee is cold."

            "Your welcome," Scratch replied, tossing the cables aside.  "Don't worry about those—I'm sure your human friends have got the brains to shut off the generator sometime soon."

            "Was that really necessary?"

            "What you think I could take on that big hulk of a bastard?"

            "No, I mean leaving me?"

            "Ah—that—well, there wasn't really enough time to explain..."

            Jet laughed.  "Just forget it.  I'm contacting intel.  They'll want to see this first, I'm sure."

            Zenith Prime looked at the plans before him.  "So you really think that this is possible...that this will work?"

            "If the men and bots are up to it—and it looks to me like they are," Colonel Gage said.

            "The only things that worries me is if they don't bite the bait."

            "You tell me.  You know the enemy better," Colonel Gage replied, smiling.

            "Well I do have to admit that the logic seems sound, but I guess that's what worries me.  If you ask me, the safest plans are the ones that always end up sour."

            "Now you're just being paranoid," Colonel Gage said matter-of-factly.

            "I suppose," Prime replied, pausing for a time.  "Slipstream?"

            Slipstream was silent for a moment.  "I think that you should be prepared for the worst."

            "Aren't we always, though?" the Colonel replied.

            "Then there is not much more that you can do," the transformer replied flatly.

            "That's being rather pessimistic and cynical, isn't it?"

            "He controls all.  He rules all.  Our efforts our pointless."

            Colonel Gage stared in front of the former Predacon, who remained motionless.  Gage snapped his fingers and waved his hands a few times in front of the transformer's glazed eyes.  "Slipstream.  Slipstream!  It's Colonel Gage.  Remember?  The alliance?  Wake up, Slipstream!  The war is over!"

            Slipstream shook his head and seemed to come out of a trance.  His posture slackened as he leaned back in his chair.  "I'm sorry colonel, were you saying something?"

            "Looks like you could use some down time to refuel and regen," Zenith said.  He reached into a cabinet and produced a small energon crystal.

            "Ah, many thanks," the former predacon replied, nodding with graciousness.  He examined it and smiled at Zenith, "A ninety-five?  Are you Autobots always live so luxuriously?"

            Zenith shrugged, making it a point not to look directly back at Slipstream.  "Well, we certainly know how to enjoy ourselves.  Besides, I've known you long enough.  A Cytex ninety-five and nothing less."

            "How are you holding up these days, Slipstream?  I mean it, seriously," the colonel asked, taking a seat at an adjacent armchair.

            "I am…getting by.  The...episodes...are less frequent," he replied carefully.  He picked up the crystal, ingested it, and sighed.  "It has been rough…adjusting...to these...new ideas."

            "Well, I don't blame you.  A veteran of the Great Wars and just about every conflict imaginable...I don't see how any one individual could have seen so much war."

            "When you count the passing time in centuries, colonel, it becomes very easy to see."

            "Well, I'm glad to see that you've come around, though.  It is comforting to know that not every Decpticon, Predacon, or whatever-con has a black heart."

            "This thing called war—we've had too much.  For most—like me—it is the only thing we know.  How can wars last thousands of years at time, you may think?  To me that was the norm.  When I first looked at human history, I was stunned to see such relatively short conflicts.  I suppose that is what first caught my eye…"  He trailed off.  His eye fell upon his glass, realizing that it remained only a quarter full.

            "Well, then.  It's nice to see that you're coming around all right.  Now about the present situation—have you seen the maps?"

            "I can say with no more certainty with you, but indeed I agree that it does seem very likely that he will "bite the bait," as the human colloquialism goes.  However, you must go to extra lengths to ensure its secrecy and to make the situation authentic.  Your timetable, though politically and militarily very appealing, is too condensed.  If you want to trick the likes of a decepticon and their allies, you _must go to extra lengths beyond anything you would imagine."_

He stood up and walked towards a window.  Staring out for a moment, he spoke flatly without averting his survey of the outer world, "Do you recall the story of Coventry during World War II?"

            The colonel nodded.  "That was the civilian city that Churchill decided not to defend from German bombing.  If he did, they would have figured out that the British cracked the enigma code and would have changed it."

            Slipstream turned his head towards the colonel and fixed his eyes on him.  "You must be prepared to make that sort of decision."

            The colonel hesitated a moment.  "Times aren't the same anymore.  Laws..."

            "Laws are mortal tools of mortal beings, colonel.  Just as easily as the ones that make them, they can be broken.  And just as much as the ones that make them, they are often flawed.  You do what you must.  That is all you can hope to do.  Laws are meaningless when it comes to survival."

            Colonel Gage bit his lip, then nodded slowly.  He let out a deep breath.  "I...I know.  Its just..."  He shook his head.

            "Colonel," Slipstream said, walking over to the husky man.  He placed a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezed ever so slightly.  "The eyes of the world—the universe—are watching upon you, as they do always.  You do what you must.  History will tell your tale.  For you, there is only silence."

            The colonel nodded, walking slowly to the door.  Zenith Prime watched the two leave, whispering a few words to each other yet.  _Quite a character, he thought to himself.  __And yet those words seem so familiar..._

            A distant rumbling.  Tripwire snapped to attention, listening closely.  "Someone's gonna get it up the tailpipe," he muttered to himself.  "Alright, folks, looks like we've just become the main assault.  The party's started without us.  Move it in!"

            They broke up into platoons and headed out towards the bridge.  Already some commotion could be seen down below.  People were waving hands back and forth at each other, shouting words which they could not discern.  Off to one side, a small cluster of decepticons were getting ready for battle.  They seemed too smug and satisfied.

            Tripwire gave a signal and the mortars opened up, followed by the machine guns.  An explosion blossomed on the far side of the river, harmlessly to one side, but then a second landed in the firing pit to which one of the large laser turrets was entrenched.  "On my signal," Tripwire said.  He ran down the slope, and threw a large smoke grenade canister, and the air was soon filled with red smoke.  His company was somewhere behind him, but he didn't bother looking for them.  Whipping out his laser rifle, he threw another smoke grenade onto the bridge.

            The machine gunners were positioned on the sides, so they could still get shots at anything not already obscured, but the main spear of the attack was the infantry, with which they hoped to overwhelm the enemy.  Hopefully, no one would be watching closely enough to set off explosives on the bridge.  It did not look like a good day for a swim.

As suddenly as he was covered with smoke, he appeared on the other side.  The gun crews were just beginning to bring the LL32 to bear, but enfilading fire poured onto the crew from behind him.  Down the street, a tank turned the corner.  It was a decepticon.  The others might not be able to tell, but Tripwire could _feel him.  A few rounds of high explosive shells came whistling down the street.  "Cover!" he shouted, diving for the ground._

Two were a near miss, but the third exploded directly behind him.  He heard some screams, but the assault had to continue.  The decpticon accelerated towards Tripwire—it was a challenge.  Smiling to himself, Tripwire charged forward.  At the last minute, the decpticon transformed and they were locked in close combat.

Sam Gradsen appeared on the other side of the smoke cloud, which was slowly beginning to dissipate.  The platoon leader, Sergeant Summers, signaled them to stay close to the buildings.  Already they could see machine gun positions opening up from the rooftops and upper windows.  Some people would suddenly fall, silenced forever by distant snipers.  It was going to be an ugly battle.

Sergeant Summers was making quick gestures with his arms.  Two machine guns in the building ahead, third floor.  He threw in a grenade, and immediately after the explosive went off, they charged inside.  Storming up the stairs, they could hear voices.  The first two people to reach the upper story threw grenades into the only two rooms there.  A shriek was followed by the chattering of an OICW, then more shrieks.  The machine guns fell silent.

As quickly as they went in, they were out, moving from house to house.  From one of the windows, Sam spied Tripwire, but there was a dust cloud of dust kicked up in his vicinity.

Tripwire and the decpticon fell to the ground and tumbled, kicking up a huge cloud of dust.  With a large clank, a huge metallic foot swung around and smashed him in the side.  He rolled over and struggled to his feet, but the dust obscured his vision.  He heard a footstep, and immediately dove towards the sound.  At first he was met by dust, but as he skid, he felt something hard and grabbed a hold.  He was rewarded with a grunt and the sound of steel on ground.  Groping his way up, he attempted to get a better grip, but the decepticon kicked his hand away, spun around, and but two huge hands around his neck.

Despite the fact that transformers don't breathe, this was still a very uncomfortable position.  It brought along with it a plethora of senses that he was not quite accustomed to.  For instance, his head felt like it would pop off any moment.  And there was the strange feeling of his joint stressing and straining in ways that they were not meant to.  And then, of course, there was pure, utter pain.

He shoved one fist, then the other into the midsection of the decpticon, causing his opponent to lose his grip and stagger backwards.  They were both circling each other now, both in half-crouched positions, and each waiting for the other to make a move.  The decepticon reached back and quickly produced a stout blade with a nasty edge.  He lunged forth, charging forward with sudden speed.  Tripwire tried to parry, but he wasn't quite fast enough.  The blade glanced off of his hip in a shower of sparks.  He fell over in pain, and when he looked down, he saw a clean slice through his armor and just nicking the edge of his inner electronics.  Nothing critical was damaged, but that could have easily been his head.

The decpticon was still slightly off balance from his charge, so this gave Tripwire time to get to his feet.  As he whipped out his small sidearm, the decepticon knocked it out of his hands and kicked it away.  Using his opponents momentum, Tripwire threw the decepticon to the ground in a cloud of dust, which placed him inadvertently closer to the plasma pistol.  He reacted in the only way he could to stop him from retreiving the weapon—by jumping on top of the decepticon.  However, the decepticon anticipated this and used the leverage to throw Tripwire backwards.  He fell to the ground with a clatter, and then grunted as the weight of the decepticon fell upon him.

The knife, poised just above his head, came down fast, but Tripwire held back the decepticon's arms with all his might.  Still, the blade edged closer.  A malicious grin was visible on the face of the decepticon.  "You weakling.  You Autobots haven't changed a bit," he taunted.

All Tripwire could do was grunt as the blade edged closer.  The decepticon, sensing near victory, pressed on.  "We will crush you like we have done many times before, only this time you will be extinguished.  Do you have any words for the history book?"

Tripwire heaved a little, then looked up with an evil grin of his own.  "Don't...tread...on...ME!"  He pushed back violently with such sudden force that the decepticon went head over heels.  Tripwire was already on top of him.  He balled up a huge fist and started smashing the face-plate of the decepticon.  One after another, he delivered a series of smashing hits, making deep grunts with each blow.  The decepticon's visor cracked.  His facial armor began to deform.  Sparks flew.  A blow to the neck—another shower of sparks.  Tripwire could feel the energy surging through him.  He glanced a bit lower on his target and struck multiple times.  At first the huge torso of the decepticon held, but gradually it began to dent inwards and a crevasse formed.  He picked up the fallen blade and screamed, shoving it deep within the spark cage of the decepticon.

A huge light flashed and for a moment the two were bathed in a stream of energy.  Tripwire staggered backwards from the metallic hulk that was once alive.  His optics were not making sense.  He glanced left and right, staggering and trying to right himself.  Finally, the world swirled and he found himself staring at a slowly fading sky.


	7. Chapter 6: “It is Ready”

(Verstand tanzt)

Dances of the Mind

Bourrée: Hot Stepping

Chapter 6:

"It is Ready"

_Make it stop._

[Grunts.  Moans.  A female scream.]

_Stop it._

[Red.  Flashed of green.  A deep crimson.  White—hot, hot white.]

_Stop._

[Shock.  Fear.  Hesitation.  Fear.  Rage.  Hate.  Rage.  Retaliation.  Rage.]

_Stop._

[Power.  Force.  Rage.  Revenge.  Destroy.  Rage.  Destroy.  Destroy.  Destroy.]

_Go Away._

[Heat.  Heavy pulsations.  Breathing.  Heavy.  Pressure.  Pain.  Fire.  Energy.]

_Go Away._

[The world passes.  Too quickly.  Is that me?  What is this?  What am I watching?]

_Go Away._

[Where am I?  Swirls and swirls of red—deep, deep, blood-red.  The sky is green.  A blue coolness, but it feels so vile.  Fear.  Fear.  The blue, so comforting and cool, but...fear.  Anger.  Fear.  Fear.]

_GO AWAY!!!!!_

"Tripwire!" a sudden, familiar voice shouted.

"Go away!!!" he shouted, flailing violently.  He flung into sudden consciousness.  The world was real.  The fear was real.  The reality of the world was so shocking, so utterly frightening, he wanted to run.  There was nowhere to run.  He was struggling but he couldn't move.  He shouted, but couldn't hear himself.  His senses wanted to explode.

"Tripwire," a voice called, quiet and cool, soothing and calming.  Slowly, he ceased struggling.  His chest stopped its furious pulsating from generating of massive amounts of energy and sending it into his system—his "breathing" slowed.  The world became comprehensible.  Bits and pieces of voices began to become intelligible.  His vision resolved itself.  He could feel his body.

"Tripwire," the voice called again, lulling him.  The sound made him sigh, as if a huge weight were lifted off of him.  He felt so tired.  So wasted.  He lay back and let his consciousness slip.

"He's very tired.  Let him rest."

"But..."

"Shhhh.  Not now.  He's in a delicate balance."

Silence.  Rustling sounds.  Footsteps.  Heat.

"I'll be back.  Keep an eye on him."

"I will."

_Sigh._

"How long have you been here?"  
            "I can't leave him now.  Not when he needs me."

"It's alright.  There's nothing you can do."

Silence.

"Well, at least eat something.  Here."

"Thanks.  You should go.  I'm sure there are things you have to do."

            So smooth...

            So familiar…

            That sound.  The humming…  Memories…

            Sweet, like the summer wind; soft as a woolen blanket; light as a feather…

_            "Oh, you're so silly and young, just like the rest of them!"  Laughter._

_            "Come on, get back here!"_

_            "You'll have to catch me first!"_

_            Where is she off to now?  "I'm coming after you!"  Laughter._

_            "Sara!  Sara?"  Now where did she go?_

_            A scream._

_            "Sara!  Where are you!"_

_            More screams._

_            Laughter.   Dark, evil laughter._

            Tripwire shot up as made an awkward sound, as if struggling to reach the surface of some deep ocean he was drowning in.  Immediately, a wave of nausea washed over him and he fell back, drained, onto the soft surface upon which he rested.  Gathering up his will, he turned his head to the left and tried to make an image resolve.  It was blurry at first, but gradually the haze cleared.  A small, delicate, red haired figure was lying face down on the edge of his cot.  It made small, airy sounds as it heaved ever so subtly up, then down.

            Looking down upon himself, he could not see much, but what he could see was not pretty.  In fact he did not have to look to tell what kind of condition he was in.  The pain was so bad that he'd begun ignoring the signals that came from the lower half of his body.  His hands…his hands felt…heavy.  It was quite awkward.  They were there, but it was like they were huge blocks of cement that refused to be moved.  He concentrated and flexed a finger, but immediately winced in pain.

            He glanced again to his left.  The small figure had shifted position slightly, as to reveal a soft-skinned, pale face.  The pain and tension were beginning to ease.  He could feel the thrumming of his spark calming down.  Holding in the pain, he lifted a shaky finger, moved it towards the delicate face, and slowly moved the hair away from her face.  His hand dropped just beside the figure, which could have completely crushed the small head, if shifted over slightly.  He smiled to himself, as his vision again began to fade.  _She wore that pink sweater again.  The features of the room had long blurred beyond recognition, but he could still see her vibrant red hair.  __Like a spring flower in blossom…_

*                      *                      *

            "Take the rest of the night off, Jack.  You need it."

The security guard glanced up drowsily from his station.  He scratched his head just under the cap and yawned.  "Oh, hey Bruce.  Here early I see.  Just the same old, same old.  Boy, it almost makes you wish something would happen.  But of course if something happened…"

"Can it, will ya Jack?  Haul your ass off the seat.  You need the night off."

Jack chuckled.  "Boy I wish I could, but you know, I really need the hours tonight.  The lady back home is gettin pretty stern with the checkbooks.  Hoo yeah…the credit card bill came in last week.  Not a pretty sight.  Anyway, I was actually thinking of doing your shift."  He smiled up at the tall man.

"Really?"

He shrugged.  "Why not?"

"So you really don't want to go?"

"No siree.  Wife would kill me if I took the night off early."  He spun around in his chair to face the console, turning his back to Bruce.

Bruce sighed.  "Well, either way then, I'd hate to say, your wife will be disappointed."

"How's that?"

"It looks like you're staring at death at both ends."

            Jack furrowed his eyebrows and scratched his head again, then spun around, raising a finger as if to speak.  He never uttered a word.

            Staring right back at him was the muzzle of a silenced pistol.  Jack froze in shock for a few long seconds.  Slowly, Bruce's lips widened into a smile.  "Errr, Bruce," Jack said, trying to back up in his chair.  "Is something bothering you?"

            Bruce spread his arms.  "Everything's just peachy.  Only one thing."  He leaned in close.  "The name's Deepshot."  He pulled the cap down over Jack's eyes, jammed the gun into the back of his neck, and pulled the trigger.  Clean and efficient, he quickly covered the exit wound with thick gauze and taped it to stop the bleeding.  His well placed shot should have severed the thick bundle of nerves trailing down from his brain and into the spinal cord, and perhaps even some of the brainstem.  He covered the back of Jack's neck with some gauze, too, and rearranged the shirt, hiding the patches of white cloth.

Taking Jack's security ID and his own, he swiped them through the machine in sequence.  He picked up Jack's hand and placed it on the scanner, which accepted his fingerprints.  Then he placed his own.  The security door unlocked, but remained closed.  The others would have to open it themselves – a little more work on their part, but it looked much less obvious than an open door.  He pulled out a cable from his pocket and plugged it into the port on the console.  The other end he plugged into his shoulder.  In a moment, all the security stations had been overridden to read the door as locked.  Finally, smiling to himself, he scanned Jack's ID again, clocking him in for over time pay.

"Well, you're wife will be happy when the pension comes in," he whispered to Jack's unmoving figure.  He walked off and voiced through his internal comm link, "It is ready."

*                      *                      *

            Zenith Prime paced back and forth.  Private Sam Gradsen sat nervously outside the relatively small room in the underground facility.  Prime looked at the young soldier, who was fidgeting with his cap.  He looked so innocent and young, so thoughtful and brave.  How many young soldiers like him were they sending into battle?  What was the meaning of all this, and why has this struggle gone on as it has?  Sam looked up, as if sensing the watching eyes upon him.

            "Did you know him well?" Prime said suddenly.

            Sam flinched a little at his deep voice.  "Yes, sir.  He was like a brother to me.  Well, more of a father I guess."

            The large transformer kneeled.  "Are you scared?"

            Sam smiled nervously.  "A little.  I saw the last parts of his battle…"  The grip on his cap tightened for a moment, then loosened.  "I'll never forget the scream…"

            "So it's true then?"

            "Sir?"

            Zenith Prime shifted his position.  "Please, this is informal.  Drop the 'sir.'"

            "Yes…" Sam trailed off just as he was about to say "sir."

            Prime chuckled, shaking his head.  Then he looked up and away, as if looking at something in the distance.  "There were stories…but I never heard it from anyone who was actually there."

            Sam shuddered slightly and stared down at the floor in front of his chair.  "You don't have to say anything if you don't feel like it."

            Shaking his head vigorously, Sam replied, "No, no, no.  I've got to get it out.  To tell you truly, I haven't told anyone what I saw."  He paused and licked his lips.  "It wasn't quite normal.  There I was, up in the third story, checking room to room.  I looked out the window towards the street and saw the dust cloud.  Down…down there I could see him struggling.  The other guy almost had him, but…but something happened.  I'm not sure how to describe it.  I could almost _feel the change in the air.  It was like…like before me there was something…different.  Something…__monstrous…"_

            He broke off.  His chest was heaving.  He was biting the cap tightly in his mouth and staring forward.  There was a fire in his lungs.  His chest screamed out in pain.  Inhale.  Inhale!  "Sam!"

            He was jarred back into the real world.  The sounds around him suddenly began to reach his ears—the humming of a far off power generator, the footsteps in the distance…the voice of Zenith Prime.  Sam looked on his shoulder and saw a huge metallic finger.  He smiled weakly and took a few deep breaths.  "Sam, it's ok," Prime said in a soft and deep voice.  The reverberations were somewhat comforting.  "It's ok, Sam.  He's here.  I'm here.  He's going to be ok."

            Sam nodded slowly at first, then more surely.  "He's going to be ok," he repeated to himself.  "Sam," Prime said.  "Take some time off.  Get your mind off of your troubles.  Do something active, something physical—do something _you want to do."_

            "I…I will," he said, getting up weakly.

            "Do you need help?  I can take you back to your quarters."

            "No, no…it's ok.  I could use the fresh air," Sam said.

            When Sam exited the building out into the open air, he was met by a cool, crisp evening breeze.  He took a deep breath and let his muscles relax.  He didn't realize how tense he'd become the past few days.  Tripwire…he shuddered.  Just thinking of him brought up horrendous images.  _His eyes were blood red, he thought to himself.  _Like some satanic fire._  He shuddered._

            A loud clanking sound brought his attention.  He glanced left and right, then left again.  Nothing.  Walking forward a few steps, he peering past the wings of the building.  Still nothing.  Off in the distance, he glanced at the large security building and then towards the large doors that led underground.  Shrugging to himself, he thought, _If there were anything wrong, they'd be the first to know.  Hands in his pockets, he continued on into the silent night._


	8. Chapter 7: Connections

(Verstand tanzt)

Dances of the Mind

Bourrée: Hot Stepping

Chapter 7:

Connections

            "So what does this mean then, Hugh?"  
            "Well, Barbara, it means that we're finally looking at some real progress on the part of the allied forces.  The Allied command is even expecting to regain full control of home soil by Christmas at the latest."

            "More in-depth news at eleven, when we will be joined by the Secretary of State…"

            A shadowed hand turned off the television in disgust.  Media, politics, mass hysteria—all were the more troublesome variables to the art of war.  Of course they had their uses, but survival and combat could do very well without them.  Survival.  The word almost made him laugh.

            Indeed, the humans would be very surprised to find out that they were not the superior beings they supposed themselves to be.  Despite years of co-existence with transformers, they still seemed to keep the notion that they were equal or even superior to the Cybertronian race.  Time will school them enough, and they will eventually learn to accept the fact that these steel-bodied aliens were their Darwinian superiors.

            Tango-six-one-nine looked at himself in the mirror.  He did not yet have enough rank for a unique designation, or callsign.  His most recent tour of duty, though, would certainly shine a favorable light on him.  Looking at his physical features in a somewhat detached manner, he shut off his internal computer in irritation.  How long had it been since he'd actually _looked_ at himself?  Strange how things looked so different without electronic enhancement, composite scans, or targeting information.

            "Unit tango-six-one-nine, is there a problem?" a voice materialized from nowhere.  Someone was contacting him on his internal communications circuit.  "Your computer is off."

            "No, just a routine systems check," he replied.  Big Brother was watching again, he thought to himself.  He found himself amused that he had made such a reference of human literature—that his first thought was of a twentieth century novel.  Perhaps even more amusing was the fact that it was relevant at all.  Humans were particularly insightful beings, but it seemed not to help them in anything other than trite entertainment.

            He could not wait for the moment he could leave the forsaken planet of Earth.  When he finished his tour, he would head straight home—if he were given leave that is—straight home back to the familiar settings of Cybertron.  Just thinking about the sheer masses of fleshy beings surrounding him, their foreign oils, asymmetric proteins, and chains of complex carbohydrates.  At times it even went so far as to invoke certain internal chemical reactions he had not felt since the earliest of his training.

            Walking efficiently to the bedroom of his small apartment, he gave a final check of his supplies for tomorrow—weapons, equipment, external data storage, external power backup, the usuals.  Then, he ran a quick diagnostic and lay down on the mattress staring at the ceiling.  "Tango-six-one-nine powering down."  He couldn't wait for that promotion, when he wouldn't have to report every single miniscule movement.  He gave himself the luxury of sighing.  A moment before he shut down, he wondered what it was like when humans went to sleep.

            "So," the young officer said brashly, leaning forward in confidence, "have they chosen yet?"  
            "Bug off, flesh-'n-bones," the decepticon grumbled.

            "Hey hey, now, what's the hostility?  We're allies remember?"

            "Temporary allies," the decepticon pointed out, but then added reluctantly, "but allies nonetheless."

            "Now that's more like it!" the officer said, pulling up a stool.

            The decepticon looked up from the machine he was refitting.  "Will you continue to metabolize as such while I exercise my efficiency?"  The officer looked at him blankly.  The decepticon shook his head and returned to his work.  "Very well.  I shall tolerate you for the time being."

            The officer smiled.  "Well, my name's Ryan.  Ryan Lurst.  Lieutenant Ryan Lurst," he repeated with a smile, emphasizing his rank.  "Just got promoted.  Yours?"

            A shower of sparks flared from the machine for a moment, but Ryan was unfazed.  The decepticon did not turn from his work.  "Blackburn," he replied laconically.

            "Nice, nice.  Good to meet you," Ryan said in a jovial manner that irked Blackburn.  "Heh heh, I don't know how much your boss is telling you, but they don't have us knowing much.  I was kind of wondering if you had any news to share.  You know, maybe where we're attacking next?  If they've chosen the next battlefield?"

            "Ours is to do, not to know, and definitely not to question."

            Ryan whistled.  "A little extreme don't you think?  I mean, come on, I'm sure there was something you did for entertainment back on that steel rock of yours."

            "We did not have the luxury."

            "Ah, sure sure, blame it on war."  He scooted his stool closer and lowered his voice slightly.  "But come now, a human is a human just as a bot is a bot, eh?  You know what I mean?"  
            Another shower of sparks flew and a hideous screeching sound ensued.  Ryan did not seem to notice.  "Some know.  I'm sure there was _something_.  I mean, even if just staring at the empty space, or resting.  Dear god, though, I'm sure that you've got some kind of reproductive…"

            A huge crashing sound and an explosion of gas and smoke finally got Ryan's attention.  He leaned back and blinked rapidly a few times.  There was a large dent in the machine that had not been there before.  As the smoke cleared, he could see the glow of Blackburn's eyes, staring straight at him.  The fingers that held the insta-weld twitched a few times.  A silence followed that pervaded through the surrounding areas.  Finally, Ryan put up his hands.  "Okay, okay, I can take a hint."  He smiled.  "You're single then."

            Blackburn lifted a finger as if to say something, then held his thoughts.  After a few attempts to start speech, he finally made an awkward grunting sound before returning to work.

            Jet frowned as he tried once more.  "So how did they penetrate so deeply without being noticed?"

"I'm sorry, I can't give you any more information," the man replied.  "You'll need clearance."

"But _I_ was the victim!  They attacked _me_!"  He turned to Scratch for help, but he was spinning in circles on a desk chair behind him.  Sighing in frustration, he gave the chair a little kick and followed it as it slid down the hallway.

            Scratch laughed.  "Whoo!  Do that again!"

            "Scratch, how old are you?"  
            "Bah, age has nothing to do with it.  You humans need to appreciate the little things of life."

            "Like your processor?"

            "Hey I told you, it may be smaller but its faster!"

            "Only because there's less work to do…"

            "Grrrr.  When I think of something, I'll get back to you!" Scratch retorted.

            "Anytime, bobcat.  Let's scram before they decide to put up a file on us."

            The two walked out of the intelligence headquarters at Haltley Base.  When they were out the doors, Scratch asked, "So…anything?  I was kind of occupied; I didn't pick up much."

            Jet rolled his eyes.  "Nah nothing.  I just don't understand how even one unit could get that far into our camps without triggering any security alarms."

            Scratch shrugged.  "A fluke?"

            Jet shook his head.  "We were at least a few hundred miles from the nearest camp.  Anything heading our way would have to plow through at least a division or two just to get to us.  The only way is straight on the ground.  We've got air superiority, satellites, radar, EMP scanners, the works.  Even transformed the decepticon would have a hard time making it through.  In fact, the only way any decepticon could make it past all the security is with such special circumstances that its absurd."

            "Improbability drive?"  
            Jet raised an eyebrow.  "You read too much.  For a Cybertronian, that is."

            In his nonchalant way, Scratch shrugged.  "Picked up a digital copy somewhere.  Beats staring at a wall when you're waiting around for nothing."

            "Anyway, I think there's something up."

            "You always think there's something up."

            "Yeah well this time I _really_ think there's something up."

            "If I had eyes like yours I'd be rolling them right know.  Then again, if I had anything like yours I'd be trying to take a piss on you right now."

            "Scratch, when was your last checkup?"

            "Last week.  Did it myself," he replied, smiling.

            "Ah, I…see.  You know, you've got to lay off on the energon.  What, you like doing five kilos a minute or something?"

            "Ha ha ha.  I am the epitome of efficiency!" he said, pounding his chest with a metallic clank.

            "Oh really?  You couldn't start up on anything less than a few hundred amps."

            "Hah!  Well…well you…you're human!"

            Jet gave Scratch a dubious look.  "Nice cheap shot Max."

            "Anytime Joe."

            Jack Henley looked at the spread of papers on his left, and then the spread of papers on his right.  On one side there were reports of various security breaches and irregularities.  On the other were schedules and timetables of security officers, their assignments, and other log-in log-out information.  Sighing, he fingered through the left pile until he found a particular report.

            "Sergeant Jack Artley, suicide," the folder was titled.  "Classified" was stamped on it in huge red block letters.  Opening it up, Jack read the title of the cover page.  "Sergeant Jack Artley, murder."  It seemed that central intelligence wasn't trying as hard as it used to cover up incidents like this.  There was a time when even the official reports were faked, and one had to go high up to even ascertain the existence of a hidden truth.  He could not say that he approved of such laxness, but the pocketbooks were tight these days.

            "Suspects: Bruce Martin."  There was only the one name.  "Front security, 12 AM – 6 AM."  There was something disquieting about the fact that a security guard should murder another.  For instance, there was no clear motive.  No links were found between Martin and any outside sources, though it is dimly possible that he could have taken an on-the-fly contract.  However, psychological profiles of Martin showed no inclinations towards such behavior.  His record was spick and span—almost too clean.  Something was definitely up.

            Leafing through the file, he went through his record in reverse chronological order, checking up papers and documents.  There was a social security number, driver's license, passport—it was all there, but those were easy to fake.  More interesting was the work and residence records.  Everything checked up.  He'd even called local towns asking for records and they all checked up consistent.  Still, his instincts tugged at the corner of his mind.  Was he being too paranoid?  Maybe it was a simple crime of passion?  They would never find out—Martin disappeared after the crime, and very cleanly too.  No trace of him at all, not even on the security monitors, which were blackened out for half an hour.

            The crime scene was still taped up, and investigators were combing the area for evidence of security tampering, but none could be found.  If he had done anything, he covered himself clean.  In fact, the only aberrant entry found was of the security guard for the next shift.  Cameras show him visiting at 3 AM, about an hour and a half after the murder.  Sighing, he put the file folder aside.  He'd have to go over it again later.

            Glancing down at a recent report that was just filed, he shook his head.  A Decepticon unit was found deep within allied territory, perhaps on some sort of intelligence-gathering mission or a surgical strike.  Something was tearing at his mind, but he couldn't pinpoint it.  He'd been staring at the papers for hours, and his eyes were beginning to burn.  Finally, he got up and strode down the hall to the lounge in search of caffeine.

            "Hey Jack, working late?"  Jack Henley looked up to see the face of Ian Pershing.  "Don't work yourself too hard.  I still need you for my project!" he said in passing.  Jack stopped and frowned for a moment before he recalled their interesting discussion.  Then he hit himself on the head in sudden awareness and ran back to his office.


	9. Chapter 8: Revealed

(Verstand tanzt)

Dances of the Mind

Bourrée: Hot Stepping

Chapter 8:

Revealed

_Begin Message_

_***For Your Eyes Only***_

_Date: __November 6, 2076___

_Source: Deep Throat_

_Text:    They've compromised the drop zone again.  I managed to get this message to you with a minimal hassle, but remember to thank our allies for the bail.  They may be coming on to me.  I think I can keep it secret, but I'll have to lay low for some time.  There's much more to the cloning projects than I expected.  Cant' give you any details—they might be listening.   I need to get closer; the circles are getting much tighter.  I'll need authorization to go "above and beyond"—trust me, this one is important enough.  I hope the citizens back home can forgive me for what I'll have to do.  _

_End Message_

            The door burst open to Colonel Gage's office as the colonel led in his guest.  "This better be good," the colonel said while buttoning up his uniform.  "It's the middle of the night and my bed's getting cold."  He offered the lean man a seat and sat down behind his desk, folding his hands on top of it.  "Now, Mr. Henley, what do you have that is absolutely dying for my attention?"  
            Jack Henley pulled out a huge brown envelope stuffed with notes.  Pulling out some papers and plopping it on the desk, he stared the colonel in the eyes.  "Colonel, we've been infiltrated."

            The colonel stared back for a few moments, then waved his arms.  "I suppose you have details for me?"  
            "Is this room secure?" Henely asked.  When the colonel nodded, he continued, "Well, here's the story.  Are you aware of Project Inside-Out?"

"Enlighten me."

"Allied intelligence is currently investigating reports of decepticon human cloning projects under the code name Project Inside-Out.  All you need to know is that we've ascertained that the decepticons are using human units of sorts to infiltrate high security areas and positions in our government and military.  Our source on the inside has shown us detailed evidence that the decepticons are using cybernetically altered humans, cloned in a secret lab on Cybertron, to accomplish this.  That's as far as it goes, for now."

            Gage nodded gravely, cueing Henley to continue.  "Now this," Jack said, pulling out a folio, "is the report on the murder of Jack Artley.  The main suspect is Bruce Martin.  Now I've done some interesting diggings on Martin, but all the facts checks out.  All but one, that is.  It says here that he was born on March 18, 2040, at the Metropolitan Hospital in Little Rock, Arkansas.  I called the hospital, and they do have a record of his birth, and even the doctor that delivered him.

            "However, when I talked to a few other people, I came upon a passing reference to some big fire.  After a bit of poking around, I found out that on March 14, 2040, there was a big fire that burned down half of the west wing.  The hospital was closed for an entire week to clear out the char and to investigate—even the undamaged wings were closed because of the ash.  So then, how could this mystery man be born in a closed hospital?"

            "Clerical error?"

            "Not likely, with everything computerized and mostly automated."

            Gage rubbed his cheeks in deep thought.  "So what your saying is that…"

            "Martin wasn't born on Earth."

            Hearing it like that made Gage lean back in his chair and pinch his forehead.  "Colonel, that's not all."  The colonel looked up wearily.  "Sir, this is a recording from the security monitors shortly after the murder."  He pulled out a small LCD screen and popped in a memory card.  The video came to life, showing a man dressed up in security clothing entering the front gate.  "This is the front gate, as our strange visitor enters at 2 AM.  Watch this."  He pressed a few buttons and a small window popped up with a zoomed on a small patch of floor.  He played the video again.

            Nothing happened for a few seconds, but then the door opened and the officer walked through.  "Did you see that?" Henley said, playing it back again.  This time, he hit pause.  "There," he said, pointing to the little window.  "What do you see?"

Colonel Gage squinted.  "Nothing."

"Right.  Watch again."  He backed up one frame.

Colonel Gage's eyes widened as a dark blotch appeared.  Henley advanced the frame again, then backed it up several times.  The blotch blinked on and off.  Henley explained, "When I examined the area covered by the security camera, I noticed a bloodstain on the floor.  However, if you look at the footage of the video just as motion begins, the bloodstain is gone.  What does that mean?  The footage of the security guard entering was made _before_ the murder.  Whatever happened in those few seconds had been covered up."

The colonel sighed heavily.  "So what's the worst case scenario?"

Henley shrugged.  "We have had an intruder in the base for more than twenty-four hours but less than forty-eight."

            Shifting his chair, the colonel began to flip through a rolodex.  "I'll call the chief of security myself.  We'll have to go to high alert.  Also, we'll need to double guard shifts for the next…"

            "Uh sir?"

            "Yes?"

            "Just one more thing.  I was looking back on the other assignments that Bruce Martin had on the day of the murder.  Is there anything important in Annex H?"

            "Annex H?" the colonel repeated, frowning.  "Now why does that sound familiar?"  He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed a number.  "Security, have we had any new arrivals in Annex H?  Mmmm.  I see."  The colonel put down the phone with a shaky hand.  For a few silent moments he rubbed his temples.  Then he looked at Jack Henley.  "The president is visiting."

            Magnatron smiled to himself in self delight.  It was so much fun to toy with the planet, especially without the problem of resources that so plagued his predecessors.  Indeed Megatron and his army had been rather naïve with his strategy of massive accumulation of war materiel.  What did Magnatron do when the continuing costs of maintaining an army were high?  Why send them into battle, and make sure that none return.  It delighted him to send massive hordes of mechanized mayhem rumbling into the humans, and to watch them recoil at his might.  It amused him even more to survey the battle scenes afterwards—the death and destruction, the rotting heaps of organic flesh that would, in time, become more useful hydrocarbons.  Indeed he soaked in the essence of the apocalyptic scenes, and it refreshed him.

            The humans were too easy to beat.  There were a number of ways in which he could bring about their destruction—the only struggle was to chose which one (or ones).  First there was nuclear holocaust.  The United States and Russia together own tens of thousands of active and inactive nuclear warheads, very easy for the pickins.  The task was so easy that he had even considered only using US warheads against the US and Russian warheads against the Russians.  But that was such a waste of valuable energy and firepower.

            The second option was biological warfare.  The thought of disrupting Earth on the ecological level absolutely thrilled him, and the amount of effort required was so trivial.  Perhaps a few grams of an engineered biological agent, and then all he would have to do is wait for results.  From the estimates he received, he could have the entire human race wiped out in less than a year.  The humans were so vulnerable in a number of ways that it amazed him that they still continued to exist.

            Of course, there was always the conventional method.  He could destroy them in head-on battle, which was somewhat more satisfying.  The physical act of beating down the human race to the very last individual being seemed like a project worthy of his skill, but it was too tedious.  And utterly inefficient.  Unless, of course, he could enslave the human race.  But they made such ill-qualified slaves.  They required far more attention than drones, and produced work of much less quality and quantity.

            Yes, the humans would be easy to conquer, if not for those blasted Autobots.  And the Maximals.  Yes, they would have to be dealt with, too.

            But they, too, could be done away with.  There was no way that they had enough power to pre-empt every one of his plans.  In numbers, at least, Magnatron was superior, and he intended to play the cards very well.  In the end, he supposed that he would implement all three pans – at the same time.  He intended to keep the Autobots so busy that they would break down from wear alone.

            In any case, he could have something prepared for them.  Transformers were vulnerable to viruses, just of a different kind.  And the Maximals…well they would be just as easy to rid of as the rest of the planet.  _You are only as strong as your weakest component_, he always reminded himself.  The Maximals were unfortunately hampered by their organic parts, so they had the wonderful pleasure of being vulnerable to both biological and technological agents of war.

            "Sir."  A voice interrupted his musings.

            "Yes?"  
            "He is here."

            "Good."

            A shadowy figure strolled in the room, but Magnatron could smell his stench even before then.  The humanoid walked to the center of the dark room and stopped to kneel.  _At least he remembers his dues_, Magnatron thought, fighting back the revulsion.

            "Reporting, sir."

            "Deepshot, it is?  The scientists tell me that you are the pride of their work.  Are you?"  
            "I am, sir."

            "So then, what have you to report?"

            "Just that arrangements have been made for the new president of the United States.  Would you like him alive, like the other?"

            "Yes," he responded, waving a hand in the air.  "I'm sure I'll think of something to do with them."

            Without looking up, Deepshot smiled.  "Might I have a suggestion…"

            "Up."

            The door swung wide open and a blinding light shone into the room.  The haggard figure cringed away from the brightness.  A metallic foot found its way into the human's stomach.

            "Up I said!"

            Climbing obediently to his feet, the comforting darkness was returned to him when a blindfold was placed over his eyes.  He was led down so many twists and turns that he could hardly even tell down from up.  Finally, he was thrust upon a chair in reclined position and strapped to it.  The blindfold and his bindings were removed, leaving the captive to adjust to a setting much brighter than he was used to.  Finally, though, his vision resolved, and he took a look at his surroundings.

            He was alone in a room that looked very much like a dental office.  Behind him, at the periphery of his vision, he could see a surgical bed, and a cabinet of sterile cloth.  Nearby was a platter of shiny steel tools, each which seemed to have its own nasty characteristics.  Looking at his own clothes in the light, he seemed surprised by what he saw.  He was not aware that so much time had passed—after the first few weeks you lose track of time—but when he looked at himself, it was apparent that he had been locked away for a long time.  His clothes were in shambles, and his slacks resembled summter shorts more than anything.  He couldn't imagine what his face was like.  Thinking to himself, _quite a plight for the president of the __United States_.

            The then door opened with a crash and in stepped a gray shadow of steel.  It closed the door and locked it behind him.  The man in the chair looked up at the husky transformer with a certain amount of fear, but he did his best to disguise it.  The transformer casually removed a fist and replaced it with a drill attachment.  Testing it with a series of whirring sounds, he disappeared behind his patient momentarily and returned with a syringe.

"Hold still now.  This will, how you say, hurt like a mother."

            Jack Henley and Colonel Gage ran down the hall as fast as they could.  People stared at them as they whisked by in the middle of the night.  "Yes, arrange a detail.  Make that two!  Get there as soon as you can!" the colonel shouted on his cell phone.

            "Do you think…" Jack began.

            "Don't think.  Just run."

            They passed through the hallways of the G corridor adjacent to the H annex, and then finally through the connecting doors between the two buildings.  All was quiet.  Jack Henley followed the colonel up a flight of stairs and down a brightly lit hallway.  A security detail was rushing up the stairwell on the opposite end.  The pair of guards who stood watch at the double doors in the middle of the hallway looked first left then right in confusion.

            The two groups arrived at the same time.  "Is the president in?" the colonel asked, out of breath.

            "Him?  Oh yeah sure," one guard said with a southern drawl.  "Should be."

            "Has anyone been here in the past twenty-four hours?" Henley asked.

            "Well now, let's see here…not on my shift.  Carl, you reckon someone come in earlier?"  
            "Hmmm…" the other guard replied slowly.  Jack and the colonel fidgeted impatiently.  "Well," he finally continued, "I don't think so."  The two breathed a sigh of relief.

"Now wait," the first guard said.  "What about that character in them blue jumpers, say?"

"Oh yeah," the second guard said slowly.  "The janitor guy right?  Round ten o' clock he came."

"Hooeeyyy.  Didn't have a pass but wanted in.  Didn't let him in, nope."

"Now Dan…"

"Oh yeah—don't yell at me sir, but I let him in to change the towels.  Reckon the president would like a good shower."

The colonel and Jack looked at each other for a second.  "Open the door!" they both shouted.  The guards glanced at each other for a dubious moment, then opened the door.

They flipped on the lights to the room to reveal a layer of tranquility.  The bed sheets stood wrinkled on the edge of the mattress where someone might have sat down for a time.  A coat sat on a chair behind a desk, where a laptop was open with a blank monitor.  Henley wasled over to the desk while looking around.  "Mr. President?  Are you here?"

            He touched the laptop and it hummed to life.  On the screen was a half-completed letter to the Senate.  The other men surveyed the room, looking here and there, but nothing was disturbed.  "Either he is a very meticulous man," Henley muttered, "or he brings everything from home."

            "Jack?  Take a look at this."

            Jack turned to where the colonel was standing by the window.  A small scratch mark—a trio of parallel lines—marked the wood of the sill.  Jack stared at it for a moment, then looked out the window.  Outside, floodlights lined a paved path through a grassy lawn, with a nearby fountain in clear view.

            "Sir!" a voice shouted from outside.  They turned as a security guard ran in.  "Some workers just found a pair of bodies in the dumpster.  Secret service agents!"

            The colonel nodded gravely.  Then he looked at the laptop and back to Jack.  "Prepare to inform Congress that we have another missing president."


End file.
